The Return of Harry Holmes
by ZenoNoKyuubi
Summary: The great consulting detective finally returns to London after many years! Join him on his adventures, solving crimes alongside his friend and confidante Healer Neville Longbottom!
1. Chapter 1

**Here you have it, the Return of Harry Holmes! Much of this chapter is taken from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's 'The Adventure of the Empty House,' but please, bear with me...**

–

_**THE MINISTRY IS STILL BUMBLING AROUND!**_

The now thirty-five year old Neville Longbottom sighed as he folded the Daily Prophet, sitting at a table in the Leaky Cauldron. His old friend, Harry James Potter, would surely have been able to solve this case. Again and again these days, Neville found cases in the Daily Prophet that would have been right up Harry's alley.

Although Voldemort was gone, as was the secretive Moriarty, the Death Eaters were still at large, as were all of Moriarty's lieutenants. Harry had left the Ministry in an uproar, as there were just too many cases for them to handle now. Not even half of them were solved properly.

Neville knew that he would never repeat it, but he had even heard the now Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Rufus Scrimgeour say that he missed having Potter around to solve the queerer cases. Rita Skeeter was particularly vicious in her articles regarding the Ministry, saying that Harry was the only reason anything had gotten solved back in the day.

Neville sighed to himself as he thought about it. Twenty-four years it had been since he met Harry Potter on the train to Hogwarts, two years since Harry died, and not a day went by where Neville didn't miss him.

As Neville stood up and pushed in his chair, he bumped into an elderly, deformed man, who had been behind him, and he knocked down several books which he was carrying. Neville picked them up, observing the title of one of them, The Origin of Gnome Worship, and it struck him that the fellow must be some poor bibliophile, who, either as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure volumes.

Neville started to apologize for the accident, but it was evident that these books were very precious objects in the eyes of their owner. With a snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and Neville saw his curved back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng of people in the Leaky Cauldron.

Shaking his head, Neville gave his wife at the bar a kiss and made his way up the stairs to his office. The Leaky Cauldron was always full of strange people, but there was something rather more peculiar about that man than anyone else Neville had seen there.

That evening, there was a knock on his door. At Neville's urging, the door opened, and to his astonishment, it was none other than the strange book collector who came in, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least, wedged under his right arm.

"You're surprised to see me, sir," he said in a strange, croaking voice.

"I am," Neville acknowledged, but some part of him told Neville that he should be glad the stranger was there.

"Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I saw you move up those stairs, I thought to myself, I'll just step in an see that kind Healer, and tell him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner, there was no harm meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my books."

"You make too much of a trifle," Neville said. "May I ask how you knew I was a Healer?"

"Well, sir, I am a neighbor of yours, and very happy to see you. I have heard that you collect books, and thought you might be interested," the man said, setting the pile of books down on Neville's desk. "Here's The Merlinean Age, and Advanced Arithmancy, oh, and here is a special one, the Book of Osiris. A bargain, every one of them. With five volumes, you could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not, sir?"

Neville moved his head to look at the cabinet behind him. When he turned again, Sir Harry Potter was standing smiling at him across his study table.

"My dear Neville, do you mind if I smoke a cigarette in your consulting room?" he asked calmly.

Neville rose to his feet, stared at him for a few seconds in utter amazement, and then, for the first time in his life, he fainted. A gray mist swirled before his eyes, and when it cleared, he found his collar-ends undone, and the tingling after-taste of Firewhisky on his lips. Harry was bending over his chair, his flask in his hand.

"My dear Neville," that voice he had missed so much said, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea you would be so affected."

Neville gripped him by the arms.

"Harry!" he cried. "Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are alive?"

"Well, you are not looking at a ghost, if that's what you're wondering," Harry said simply, gesturing for the fact that Neville was holding him.

"But... But how on earth did you survive that fall?"

"Wait a moment," Harry said seriously. "Are you sure that you are really fit to discuss things? I've given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance."

"I'm alright, I'm alright. Can hardly believe my eyes, but I'm alright, Harry," Neville said. "Merlin's beard! To think that you, _you_, of all men, would be standing in my consulting room!" Again, he gripped Harry by the sleeve, and felt the thin but fit arm underneath. "Well, you're not a spirit, that's for sure. Please, sit down, and tell me how you survived that awful fall!"

Harry sat down opposite Neville, and lit a cigarette in his old, nonchalant manner. He was dressed in the seedy frock coat of the book merchant, but the rest of that individual lay in a pile of white hair and old books on the table, next to his top hat.

Harry looked healthier than ever, a clear sign that he had been living and eating properly.

"I am glad to stretch myself, Neville," he said, stretching lazily. "It's no joke when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several hours on end. Now, my dear friend, in the matters of these explanations, we have, if I may ask for your cooperation, a hard and dangerous night's work in front of us. Perhaps it would be better if I gave you an account of the whole situation when that work is finished?"

"I'm full of curiosity," Neville said. "I wouldn't be able to concentrate. I'd prefer to hear it now."

"You'll come with me tonight?"

"When you like and where you like."

"This is, indeed, like the old days," Harry said, smiling softly. "We shall have time for a mouthful of dinner before we need to go. Well then, about that fall. I died down there, Neville," he said, his smile vanishing and his expression suddenly turning grim. "As you saw, and I am terribly sorry that you had to witness it, Neville, I really am, I tackled Voldemort off the cliff and fell. My mother's protection was unbearable for him. He was in too much pain to Apparate away, and I saw the rocks below coming closer and closer, and then... all I saw was white..."

–Five years ago–

_I lay facedown, listening to the silence. I was perfectly alone. Nobody was watching. Nobody else was there. I wasn't perfectly sure that I was there myself._

_A long time later, or maybe no time at all, it came to me that I had survived the fall. I was living, I existed, wasn't just some disembodied thought, because I was most definitely lying on some surface. I most certainly had a sense of touch, and the thing against which I lay existed, too. In opening them, I also discovered that I had eyes._

_I lay in a bright mist, though it was not like mist I had ever experienced before. My surroundings were not hidden by cloudy vapor, but rather the cloudy vapor had not yet formed into surroundings._

_I recognized what I lay upon right away. It was the rug in the sitting room of 221B Diagon Alley. The vapor around me formed into just that, and I found sitting there, in our armchairs, none other than Lily and James Potter. They were both smiling so proudly at me. Then a noise reached me, the small soft thumpings of something that flapped, flailed, and struggled. It was a pitiful noise, yet also slightly indecent. It gave me this distinct feeling that I was eavesdropping on something furtive, shameful._

_I spotted the source right away, behind the chairs. It had the form of a small, naked child, curled on the ground, its skin raw and rough, flayed-looking... It had been left there, unwanted, struggling for breath._

"_You cannot help it," my mother spoke to me suddenly as she rose from her chair, embracing me for the first time in my memory. My father approached as well and joined in the hug. "My boy," she whispered in my ear, and I don't think I have ever felt more comforted by anything before._

"_So, I am dead, then," I said. It wasn't a question._

"_Not yet," my mother said, shaking her head._

"_You could be, if you want, but I don't think you do," my father said._

_We talked for a moment, about things I have no wish of disclosing. Then, my mother gave me another hug and said, "We all know you don't want to leave this world. We will wait for you, but don't follow us. It's not your time."_

_With that, they walked off, leaving through the front door._

–

"I don't know what happened, exactly, but I woke up in the English Channel, being carried away by the current," Harry said with a sigh, lighting another cigarette. "I immediately Apparated away back to Diagon Alley, but I soon realized that Moriarty and Voldemort weren't the only ones after my head, and I would be able to operate better if everyone believed me to be dead."

"You sure fooled me," Neville muttered, and Harry smiled softly.

"Again, I owe you a thousand apologies, Neville. But it was very important that it should be though I was dead, and I'm quite sure that you couldn't have written so convincing an account of my unhappy end had you not yourself thought it was true. I had only one confidant, other than you, my father-in-law Jean-Luc Delacour, Head of the French Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I went there at once, and it wasn't until a year later that I finally informed Fleur of my being alive."

"So that's why she left two years ago," Neville said in sudden realization. "It wasn't because everything around her reminded her of you."

"Yes, under the guise of still grieving, two years after she received my letter, Fleur made her way back to France with our son, where I have been living ever since."

Harry sighed heavily.

"Several times during the last five years have I felt tempted to pick up a quill and send you an owl, but I feared that your affectionate regard for me would tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my secret. For that reason, I turned away from you this morning, because I was in danger at the time, and any show of surprise and emotion on your part might have drawn attention to my identity, and led to the most deplorable and irreparable results."

"When did you come back?"

"About a week ago. I came over to London, called in my own person at Diagon Alley, threw Mrs. Marston into violent hysterics, and found that Fleur had preserved our rooms and my papers exactly as they had always been. And so it was, my dear Neville, that at two o'clock today, I found myself in my old armchair in my own old room, and only wishing that I could have seen my old friend Neville in the other chair which he has so often adorned."

That was the strange narrative to which Neville listened on that April evening, a narrative which would have been utterly incredible to him had it not been confirmed by the actual sight of the tall, spare figure and the keen, eager face, which he had never thought he'd see again.

"I have a piece of work for us both tonight which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion, will in itself justify a man's life on this planet." In vain, Neville begged him to tell him more. "You will hear and see enough before morning," Harry answered. "We have five years of the past to discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start upon the notable adventure of the empty house."

It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, Neville found himself walking alongside Harry, his wand in a position so that it was easy to draw, and the thrill of adventure in his heart. Harry was cold, stern and silent. As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed on his features, Neville saw that his brows were drawn down in thought, and his thin lips compressed. He didn't know what wild beast they were about to hunt down in the dark jungle of London, but he knew, from the bearing of this master huntsman, that the adventure was a grave one, and the sardonic smile which occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom boded little good for the object of their quests.

"Five people dead, anti-Apparition wards up, and doors and windows locked from the inside, you say?" Harry asked suddenly, remarking upon the subject they had discussed during dinner. "My, my, they really are slacking off without me, aren't they?" he asked, a look of amusement flashing across his face. "Now come, Neville. I want to see if these five years have robbed me of my power to surprise you."

Together, the two entered 221B Diagon Alley, and Harry closed the door behind them. The place was pitch dark, and it was obvious that the house was empty. Mrs. Marston never left the house pitch dark unless she was out. Harry's cold, thin fingers wrapped around Neville's wrist, and led him up the stairs and into their old flat, where Neville couldn't help but give a startled yelp when they entered.

Sitting in the armchairs in front of the fire, the only source of light in the room, were two very life-like figures, looking identical to Harry and Neville. Now and then, the figures fidgeted, obviously having been animated by Harry, who pulled Neville over to stand in the shadows by the front door, which he closed. He was shaking with silent laughter.

"Well?" he whispered.

"Good heavens," Neville whispered back. "It's marvellous."

"I trust that all this time hasn't staled my infinite variety?" Harry asked, and Neville recognized in his voice the joy and pride which the artist takes in his own creation. "They really are rather like us, aren't they?"

"If I wasn't certain that we were standing here, I would have been prepared to swear that it was us."

"They are entirely lifelike, with pig skin, flesh, and bone molded to look like us," Harry whispered.

"But why?"

"Because, Neville, someone will be trying to kill us tonight."

"How do you know?" Neville asked, "By who?"

"By my old enemies, Neville, in particular the man who, like you, witnessed the downfall of Lord Voldemort. He is the most dangerous criminal in London. That is the man who is after me tonight, Neville, and that is the man who is quite unaware that we are after _him_."

For about an hour, they waited. Then, Harry drew in his breath with a shrill, excited intake. In the dim light Neville saw his head thrown forward, his whole attitude rigid with attention. All was still and dark, save only that light coming from the fire. Again in the utter silence Neville heard that thin, sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement. An instant later Harry pulled Neville back into the blackest corner of the room, and Neville felt his warning hand over his mouth. The fingers which clutched Neville were quivering. Never had he seen his friend more moved, and yet the dark room was still lonely and motionless, save the movements coming from the fake bodies.

But suddenly Neville was aware of that which Harry's keener senses had already distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to Neville's ears from the back of the house in which they stood concealed. A door opened and shut. An instant later steps crept up the stairs, steps which were meant to be silent, but which reverberated harshly through the empty house. Harry crouched back against the wall, and Neville did the same, his hand closing upon the handle of his wand.

Peering through the gloom, Neville saw the vague outline of a man, a shade blacker than the blackness of the open door. He stood for an instant, and then he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into the room. He was within three yards of them, this sinister figure, and Neville had braced himself to meet his spring, before he realized that he had no idea of their presence. He passed

close beside them, stole over to the armchairs, and swiftly reached down, snapping the neck of the Harry fake.

"Huh?" Neville heard, and in the light of the fire, he saw a large, vicious-looking man with matted gray hair and whiskers. He had pointed teeth and long yellowish nails, adding to his bestial appearance.

It was at that instant that Harry sprang like a tiger onto the would-be killer's back, and hurled him flat upon his face. He was up again in a second, and with convulsive strength he seized Harry by the throat, but Neville rushed over and struck the man in the back of his head with the steel head of his walking stick, and he dropped again. Neville threw himself upon the man, and as he held him down, Harry blew a shrill call upon a whistle.

There was a clatter of running feet on the pavement outside the open window, and two Aurors, along with a plain-robed wizard, rushed up the stairs and into the room.

"That you, Scrimgeour?" Harry asked.

"Yes it is, Potter," came Scrimgeour's voice, and Harry waved his wand. The lights came on, revealing that Neville was holding down none other than Fenrir Greyback, who was snarling savagely up at him. "I took this job myself. I can't believe I'm saying this, but it's good to see you back in London, Potter."

"I think you want a little unofficial help," Harry said, obviously amused as the two Aurors stunned Greyback and allowed Neville to get off him. "Three unsolved murders on top of Greyback's five won't do, Scrimgeour. But you handled the Edinburgh Murders with an unusual efficiency. You handled it very well."

Scrimgeour hummed and gestured for the dummies in the armchairs. "Nice touch, those."

"Indeed, probably the closest thing we shall ever get to creating life," Harry said proudly, reaching into his pocket and taking out his pipe. As he lit it, he finally looked just as he had in the old days, proudly puffing on it as the Aurors dragged Greyback away. "Now, Scrimgeour, if you would be so kind as to allow Mrs. Marston back into her house, or we'll never hear the end of it."

"Yes, a feisty woman, that one," Scrimgeour said with something akin to amusement in his voice. "Well, London will breathe a sigh of relief, now that that wolf is ending up behind bars."

"Indeed," Neville said, still panting slightly. It had felt, to him, like trying to hold down a bull. "Five murders and an attempted sixth."

"We will never tie him to the other five," Scrimgeour said, shaking his head.

"Hah!" Harry laughed, gesturing for the dummy with the broken neck. "If you were to look at the dummy, Scrimgeour, I am sure you will see bruising on the neck remarkably similar to the bruising on the necks of the other five victims."

Scrimgeour shrugged. "People have been convicted for less," he reasoned as he left the apartment, dragging the Harry dummy with him.

Now that all the commotion was over, Neville took a look around and notices that their old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision of Jean-Luc Delacour and the immediate care of Mrs. Marston. There was the same chemical set in the corner, and the acid-stained, deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was the row of formidable scrap-books and books of reference which many of their fellow citizens would have been glad to burn. The diagrams, the Pensieve, the violin-case, and the pipe-rack, even the beautiful tobacco case, were all untouched, though it was obvious that the place had been cleaned thoroughly, as there was not a trace of dust anywhere.

Harry flicked his wand, and the Neville dummy disappeared. Then, he took off his seedy frock coat and dropped it to the floor, moving into his old room and soon coming out wearing a purple dressing-gown.

"Come, Neville, sit with me," Harry said calmly, as he, with a pleased "Aah," sat down in his old armchair. Neville did the same, and felt that now, _now_, everything was back to normal.

"I can't tell you just how amazing it feels to be back, Neville," Harry said pleasantly as he leaned back, his eyes drifting close. "Jean-Luc had the most uncomfortable armchair for me to use..."

"Meanwhile, Fenrir Greyback will trouble us no more, and you are free to once more devote your life to examining those interesting little problems which the complex life of London so plentifully presents," Neville said, lighting a cigar.

–

**So, what do you think? Like it? Love it? Hate it? ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW**!

**Don't expect me to pump out updates very quick, if at all. I have hit a particularly nasty writer's block, which I hope to overcome.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Here you have it, the second chapter of The Return of Sherlock Holmes. I try to make the mysteries longer and longer, but it's surprisingly difficult... Remember to review!**

–

"I say, Neville, London has become a tad boring now, with the death of the venerable Mr. Moriarty," Sir Harry Potter said one morning, having Neville over for breakfast. He had been back for a month now, and Fleur wouldn't be arriving until June.

Harry was once more wearing his purple dressing gown over his shirt and waistcoat, and he was leisurely reading the paper.

"What do you mean?" Neville asked, wiping his mouth as he finished his breakfast. Harry slapped the paper.

"There once was a time when, with that man in the field, the morning paper presented infinite possibilities. It was mostly just the smallest trace, the faintest indication, Neville, and yet it was enough to tell me that the great, malignant brain was there. Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage... to the man who held the clue, all could be worked into one connected whole. To the scientific student of the higher criminal world, no capital in Europe offered the advantages London then possessed. But now..." He shrugged his shoulders in humorous disapproval of the state of things, which he had himself ensured.

"Sir!"

There was a knock on the open door, and the two looked to see Dawlish, the Auror, standing in the doorway. A brilliant smile blossomed on Harry's face.

"Ah, ask and you shall receive," he said happily as he rose from his chair, moving over and shaking the Auror's hand. "What can we do for you, Dawlish? Breakfast?"

"No, thank you, sir," Dawlish said briskly but politely. "Sir, Scrimgeour asks that you come with me. There's been a murder."

–

"Oh dear... dear, dear, dear..."

The scene was a gruesome one. On a muddy field not far from London lay a body, its chest torn open and a look of utmost pain and terror on his face. It was a man, not far from being just a boy, putting him at around eighteen to twenty years of age. His hair, long and black, was dirty and covered in mud, as was half his youthful face, which had not yet lost all its color.

"That is much too young an age for someone to die," Neville said mournfully as he observed the blood-mingled mud. The Aurors in the area had kept their distance from the body, no doubt to avoid destroying any tracks.

"You will keep a record, of course?" Harry asked, glancing at Neville, who nodded and took a notebook out of his pocket, along with a pen. He had found that he could best describe the scene if he saw it in front of him, and this was a scene that needed to be detailed properly.

The man's fingers were curled, as if clutching something, and Neville thought he could detect anger mingled with the pain and fear in his expression.

"We've kept our distance," Scrimgeour said grimly to Harry. "We decided it was for the best if you were the first one to investigate the scene of the crime."

"And by 'we,' you mean, of course, Minister Bones?"

Scrimgeour frowned deeper, and nodded. Without a second thought, Harry marched straight toward the body, Neville following closely behind him.

"You're being awfully rough, Potter, what about any potential tracks? You might lose them if you stomp around like that," Scrimgeour said, staying where he was, while Harry circled the body, and Neville stood a few feet away, taking notes.

"Oh, please, Scrimgeour, your boys have done so already," Harry said calmly as he knelt in the mud, tilting his head to the side.

"We kept our distance!"

"So did the killer," Harry said as he gestured for the body. "This man was dropped here from a considerable height, so high that the impact with the ground, which muddied his right arm and the right side of his face, managed to snap his neck. Hence, he was levitated here from the very spot you're standing in."

Scrimgeour immediately jumped to the side and looked down at the ground, probably searching for tracks, while Harry just shook his head in amusement.

"Not much magic around the wound, that's probably the levitation charm," Neville said, casting diagnostics charms on the body. "No dark magic, which allows us to conclude that poison did this."

"Very good, Neville, but no. There is no poison developed yet that can explode someone's inside like that. There are, however, many various explosives, such as Dragon Tears, which may have been forcefully ingested and exploded via an Incendio," Harry said as he opened the man's mouth. "Ah, see here? Scratch marks in the back of his throat, from where the wand was forced down. And see here? He chipped his tooth biting down on it. Ah!"

Harry grabbed something off the dead man's front teeth and brought it to his nose, sniffing it.

"Elm," he spoke as he rubbed it between his fingers. "Magic-conducting elm, as a matter of fact."

Harry and Neville looked at each other and nodded.

"Malfoy," they said together.

"Yes, although Malfoy betrayed Voldemort in the war in exchange for a lighter sentence, it seems he has not lost his penchant for the gruesome and violent," Harry said. "And as you can tell, this man has lost a finger, and we know Malfoy to be a trophy collector."

Neville glanced down and saw with surprise that the muddied arm Harry was holding had, indeed, had its index finger cut off.

–

_**MALFOY SENTENCED TO LIFE IN AZKABAN! THE RESURRECTED POTTER SOLVES THE CASE!**_

"Again, your name is in the newspapers, and I find you bored out of your mind," Neville said with a chuckle as he watched his friend laying in his settee with his violin in his hands. Harry grunted.

"Oh, I hate murderers with signatures..."

"I have to agree," Neville said with a chuckle as he sat down in his usual armchair, which was turned toward the settee. After five years, all I've managed to squeeze out are two short stories about the amazing Harry Potter."

"Amazing?" Harry asked, ceasing his playing of the violin with a raised eyebrow. "Is that what they're calling me now?"

"That and more," Neville said, chuckling again. "You came back from supposed death. I wouldn't be surprised if they started calling you Phoenix Potter."

"Phoenix..." Harry mumbled, reaching into the pocket of his dressing gown and taking out his pipe. "I like that word."

"Knock, knock."

Harry and Neville looked toward the open door and saw none other than Albus Dumbledore standing there, smiling brightly.

"Harry, Neville! How wonderful to see you both!" the old headmaster said happily as he strode in without an invitation, but by the look on Harry's face, he didn't need one.

"Albus," Harry greeted with a nod. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, I merely came to talk," Dumbledore said, and with a gesture from Harry he sat down in Harry's usual armchair. "I trust I am not intruding upon anything?"

"Not at all. You are visiting during a dreary moment of boredom," Harry said, lighting his pipe. "Lucius' murder was particularly easy to solve. It was as though he wanted to get caught," he said and shared an amused glance with Neville, who chuckled. Harry turned his attention back to the headmaster. "So, you came to talk?"

"Yes, my boy, I-"

"Sir!"

Dawlish, the Auror, had once more showed up at their doorstep, looking winded and apologetic.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but we need your help."

"What is it this time, Dawlish? Scrimgeour's lost his way to the Ministry?" Harry asked, to which both Neville and Dumbledore chuckled in amusement. Dawlish got an ugly blush on his face from the embarrassment. He no doubt hated to come to Harry for help just as much as Scrimgeour did, but both of them knew, no doubt, that Harry was the better man.

"There's been a murder, sir," Dawlish ground out through gritted teeth. Harry opened his mouth, but Dawlish beat him to it. "The victim's name is Seamus Finnigan, a half-blooded wizard who-"

"Yes, we know who Seamus is," Harry said, waving Dawlish off, not looking nearly as stricken as Neville and Dumbledore. "What are the facts about the murder."

"Blood-freezing Curse, sir," Dawlish said. "That's the fifth one this year."

"Oh dear," Harry said, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. "That just won't do. Take us there, Dawlish," he said as he rose from his settee and took off his dressing gown, putting on his scarf and frock coat.

"Neville, you will come along and keep a record of the case?"

"Naturally."

–

"'Tis a sad day," Harry said as he and Neville stood above the body of their old classmate, Seamus Finnigan, who was laying face-down in the middle of the street in Hogsmeade, just outside the Three Broomsticks. "Whoever did this was smart. No footprints to discern among the many," he said, and Neville detected in him that old excitement that came with a case which would be harder to solve.

Harry hummed and knelt by the corpse, poking and prodding here and there. When he was done, he turned it over, and Neville couldn't help but stumble back in shock. Nothing had prepared him for the pain expressed on Seamus Finnigan's face. Neville knew, as a medical man, that the Blood-freezing Curse was a slow, painful curse that took hours to kill the victim, putting them in a state of rigor mortis, rendering them unable to breathe, and slowly stopping the heart. But this... He had never seen the expression of one struck by that curse before.

"Just ignore it, Neville," Harry said, in the process of removing Seamus' wedding band. He inspected it, then put it back on. "Serial adulterer... Killed in London..." he muttered to himself, making Neville blink in surprise.

"How on earth did you deduce that?"

"Simple observation," Harry said calmly, gesturing for Seamus' wedding band. "From the fact that the band is dirty on the outside, but clean on the inside, I deduced that he regularly takes it off, and since he does that, he has multiple lovers, never the same one, as you can't hide something like a marriage forever. I deduced that he was killed in London from his cloak. Tonight was a particularly warm night, and it rained in only one place: London."

"And?"

Neville got a look as if Harry was questioning his intelligence, and Harry gestured for the corpse.

"His cloak is wet, Neville."

"Oh..."

Harry rose to his feet, taking out his pipe and chewing on it.

"I think this might be a job for the Diagon Alley Boys."

And so, Neville found himself two days later once more eating breakfast with Harry. Harry was sitting calmly, reading the morning newspaper, and Neville was thinking hard.

"Tell me, are the Diagon Alley Boys at all anything like the Baker Street Irregulars?" Neville asked, breaking the silence. Harry looked over his newspaper, looking impressed.

"You've read the books, I'm impressed," Harry said happily, and Neville shrugged.

"Just _A Study in Scarlet_ and _The Sign of Four_," Neville said. "I felt that it would be prudent for me to find out just what interested my dead best friend so. It is dangerously similar, Watson and Holmes' relationship, and ours."

"I disagree, I'd make a terrible Watson," Harry said, shaking his head. Neville couldn't keep down a bark of laughter, and he was soon joined by his friend, laughing until tears started flowing. "But yes," Harry continued once he'd calmed down, wiping his eyes, "the Diagon Alley Boys are a lot like that, yet different. They are orphans and outcasts who I pay a weekly fee of ten Galleons to each, in return for their services, keeping an eye open or an ear perked for any unusual rumors or sights."

"Very clever. They are much easier to ignore than an Auror, after all," Neville said with a nod.

"Precisely," Harry said, also nodding. "Now, for the record..."

Neville nodded and took out his notebook and pen, opening it on a blank page and giving Harry his full attention.

"Seamus Finnigan, thirty-five, worked in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, serial adulterer-"

"Do we really want that to go on record?" Neville interrupted. "I mean, if his wife doesn't know..."

"It's better for her to know than spend the rest of her life in ignorance," Harry said calmly. "Now, serial adulterer, died approximately ten o'clock last Thursday night via a Blood-freezing Curse somewhere in London. The murderer was smart, Apparating the body to a location where it would be found early, and cause a panic, with people running everywhere, ruining the tracks, and left no clues on the body."

"Possible suspects?"

"Well, at present, any enemy of the Resistance. For the record, the Resistance was a group of graduates from Hogwarts who opposed Lord Voldemort during the war. Made quite a lot of enemies amongst the Death Eaters."

"'...amongst the Death Eaters...'" Neville repeated, writing it down. No sooner had he written it down, before light, hurried steps came rushing up the stairs, and through the open door came a dirty, freckled boy wearing torn and patched clothes, his curly, brown hair almost hidden by an oversized wool fisherman's cap. All of his clothes were oversized, and they were a mix of all kinds of styles. For example, he wore a tee-shirt under a waistcoat, along with a thick leather jacket. The boy looked no older than thirteen.

"Ah, Jack," Harry greeted happily, smiling at the boy, who stood proudly, his thumbs hooked in the hem of his rolled up, pin-striped pants.

"Sir Harry, sir, you'll be 'appy tah know we found the place you've been lookin' for," the boy, Jack, said proudly, puffing out his chest.

"Already?" Harry asked, sounding pleased, and Jack nodded.

"That we 'ave. You 'appy, sir?"

"Very happy, Jack," Harry said as he reached into his frock coat, which was hanging from the back of the chair he sat on, fishing out a pouch which clinked, telling Neville that it was filled with gold, and tossing it to the boy, who caught it. "This week's pay. Tell me where it is."

"Well, sir, we found this place over on Railway Street, near King's Cross, if you-"

"I know the place, thank you, Jack," Harry interrupted. Jack nodded.

"Well, anyway, sir, in an alley there, I foun' some blood, sir. 'Tis all nearly washed away, sir, but there is at least some. Now, tah me, blood in an alley isn' unusual, but this blood 'ad some purple mixed into it, sir."

"Blood-freezing Curse," Harry and Neville spoke together, nodding.

"Thank you, Jack," Harry told the boy, nodding. "You've been most helpful."

"Thank you, sir," Jack said, giving a small but noticeable bow. "I'll be off then, sir."

"Aah," Harry breathed happily once Jack had left. "Seven bright young boys can find that which the Aurors would spend years looking for in a week. They know the streets, they know the right places where someone could want to murder someone, they know most things."

"Shall we go, then?" Neville asked, raising an eyebrow, and Harry shook his head.

"After breakfast."

–

With a crack of Apparition, Neville and Harry appeared in the alley at Railway Street. The alley was wet and empty, but judging by Harry's excited expression, there were more clues there than was discernible to Neville's eyes.

"A woman stood here," Harry said, pointing to a spot on the ground as he got down on all fours, fishing his lens out of his pocket, the lens that could see fluids even if they had been long since wiped away or, in this case, washed away. "Aha, and here is where Seamus lay. He spat up blood here, meaning he was tortured after he was put under the curse. The pain from the curse wasn't enough for Mrs. Lestrange, I see."

"Lestrange?" Neville asked, and Harry sighed.

"Who else?"

"Two men stood here," Harry said, pointing out two more locations for Neville, who wrote it all down in his notebook. "Hm, it appears that Seamus was trying to write something in the rain, with his own blood," Harry continued. "Les... It would appear he got no further."

"Lestranges," Neville said, nodding. "The whole trio."

"So it would appear."

–

With a crack, Harry and Neville appeared in front of a rundown manor that looked like something taken right out of a horror novel. The shutters on the windows were hanging loose, vines were climbing up the walls, the windows were black as night, the gargoyles on the roof were rundown, one of them missing a head... The place gave Neville the chills.

"The former living quarters of Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange," Harry said as he headed up the weed-covered stone path leading to the black door of the manor, on which the black paint was peeling. He slowly pushed it open with a creak, and they were immediately greeted by something, a noise in the blackness inside. Music.

_**...Ein Fischer mit der Rute wohl an dem Ufer stand,**_

_**Und sah's mit kaltem Blute, wie sich das Fischlein wand...**_

"This place gives me the creeps," Neville muttered, gulping as they stepped inside. The inside was just as horrible as the outside. The wallpaper was yellowed and peeling, the gas lamps were almost out of gas, so they only cast a faint light upon the dusty floor, but it was enough to discern footprints in the dust.

The music stopped. Then, it started again.

_**In einem Bächlein helle da schoß in froher Eil,**_

_**Die launische Forelle vorüber wie ein Pfeil.**_

_**Ich stand an dem Gestade und sah in süßer Ruh**_

_**Des muntern Fischleins Bade im klaren Bächlein zu. **_

_**Ein Fischer mit der Rute wohl an dem Ufer stand,**_

_**Und sah's mit kaltem Blute, wie sich das Fischlein wand. **_

_**So lang dem Wasser Helle,so dacht ich, nicht gebricht,**_

_**So fängt er die Forelle mit seiner Angel nicht.**_

_**Doch endlich ward dem Diebe die Zeit zu lang. Er macht**_

_**Das Bächlein tückisch trübe, und eh ich es gedacht, **_

_**So zuckte seine Rute, das Fischlein zappelt dran,**_

_**Und ich mit regem Blute sah die Betrogene an. **_

_**Die ihr am goldenen Quelle der sicheren Jugend weilt,**_

_**Denkt doch an die Forelle, seht ihr Gefahr, so eilt! **_

_**Meist fehlt ihr nur aus Mangel der Klugheit, Mädchen, seht**_

_**Verführer mit der Angel! Sonst blutet ihr zu spät!**_

"Ah, Die Forelle," Harry said, closing his eyes and listening. "I didn't know the Lestranges were interested in Muggle music."

"They don't," he heard Neville saying behind him, and he could practically feel his friend tensing up. "They were just playing it to mask the sound of their footsteps."

Slowly, Harry opened his eyes, and found there, at the top of the stairs, none other than an aging Bellatrix Lestrange. To their left, in the doorway to the dining room, Rabastan Lestrange appeared out of the shadows, and to the right, in the doorway of the sitting room, appeared Rodolphus Lestrange.

"No time for talk, I'd wager," Harry said, and Neville hummed in agreement. In a flash, their wands were out, blocking unfriendly spells that came flying at them from three directions.

Neville immediately went on the offensive, forcing Rodolphus to back up and taking the fight to the sitting room, while Harry was left with Bellatrix and Rabastan. Rabastan went down disappointingly quickly.

"You should have Apparated farther away, Potter! We heard you coming long before you reached the door!" Bellatrix taunted as the two traded spells and curses.

"Good," Harry said calmly. "That saved me the trouble of hunting you all down one by one."

Bellatrix bristled. "Don't act like you planned it, Potter!"

"But I did plan it," Harry said simply. "And now, it's game over for you."

Bellatrix's eyes widened in surprise when an insanely powerful Stunner punched right through her Shield Charm and hit her square in the chest, knocking her out and throwing her into a wall.

"Wanted them to know we were here, huh?" came Neville's voice from behind, making Harry turn around to see that Neville had also finished his duel. He had a small cut above his eyebrow, but other than that he was alright, leaning against the door frame with his wand in one hand, and Rodolphus' collar in his other hand.

Harry just grinned.

"So, would you like to call for Scrimgeour?"

–

**So, what do you think? Like it? Love it? Hate it? ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW**!


	3. Chapter 3

**The third chapter of The Return of Harry Holmes! A bit shorter than usual, but I felt like stopping where I stopped. Please leave a review at the door, let me know what you think!**

–

"This place looks the same," Harry said as he stepped into Albus Dumbledore's office. It did look exactly as it did the last time he had been in this office. It was hard to believe that that had been almost two decades ago...

"Good day, Harry!" Dumbledore, sitting behind his desk as usual, greeted happily as he rose from his chair, walking around the table to shake Harry's hand. "How are you feeling?"

"As well as ever," Harry said with a smile. Although he had disliked Dumbledore's plan for his eventual sacrifice, there was nothing about the man himself today that was not to like. Dumbledore was, as usual, shining with energy not usually found in a man his age. He must have been close to two hundred years old. "And you, Albus?"

"Ever since the news of your return, I have felt seventy again," Dumbledore said, and the two shared a chuckle. "Please, sit down."

Harry did so, and Dumbledore walked around his desk to take a seat again.

"Now, you may be wondering why I brought you here?"

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"To find out if the Horcrux in me is truly gone, no doubt?"

Dumbledore was too surprised to hide it. His eyebrows rose high, and his eyes widened. Harry had to admit, the old man recovered quickly.

"I don't-"

Harry interrupted Dumbledore with a chuckle.

"Oh, come now, Albus, both you and I know that I am much to smart to be fooled into believing anything else."

"Frighteningly intelligent, yes," Dumbledore said, looking like he was conceding. "Yes, the main reason why I brought you here was to find out if the Horcrux in your head is really gone."

"Hm," Harry hummed as he reached into his pocket, taking out his pipe and chewing on it. A few minutes passed in silence, before Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"Well, is it?"

"Of course it is," Harry said impatiently. "Do you think me an amateur?"

"Not at all," Dumbledore said immediately. "I merely wished to make sure."

"I know you did not intend to insult my skill, intelligence, experience or skill, but getting underestimated gets a bit annoying at times."

"I shall take extra care not to do so again, then," Dumbledore said with a nod.

The two once more went silent, and Harry looked around the office, his eyes landing on the sword of Gryffindor, a thought popping into his head.

"You were wrong, you know, back in my fifth year," he said, getting a raised eyebrow from Dumbledore.

"Oh? How so?"

"I didn't pull the sword out of the hat," Harry said, his lips curving into a smirk. "Neville did."

"Did he now?" Dumbledore asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise. He looked to the phoenix sitting on his usual perch, and Fawkes bobbed his head up and down, which made Dumbledore chuckled. "My, my, I never expected to feel a mistake to be so refreshing."

"Refreshing?"

"At times, Harry, I think you will find that one gets tired of being right. No challenges makes one grow stagnant, you know that better than most, I think?"

"Indeed I do," Harry said. "But I wouldn't want to be wrong just because of that."

For the third time, the two most brilliant minds in Britain lapsed into silence. They stared at each other, Dumbledore with something akin to a mix between fondness and respect, and Harry with utmost respect. He had to respect Dumbledore's mind, one that rivaled his own, but he was not on the top of Harry's list of the smartest people in the world. At the very top was none other than Jean-Luc Delacour, the smartest and laziest man in the world, in Harry's opinion.

–

_During my long and intimate friendship with Harry Potter, there have only been three people I can positively say rival him in intelligence. These three are Albus Dumbledore, Tom Marvolo Riddle, and the smartest of all, Jean-Luc Delacour, all of whom I have had the pleasure and misfortune to run into._

_The first time I met Jean-Luc Delacour was a few days before Harry's wedding. Harry had invited me over for breakfast that morning, while Fleur was gone to meet her parents, who would be spending a few days in Diagon Alley with Harry and Fleur until the wedding._

_We had just finished eating when the door opened, and Fleur stepped into the flat, followed by three other people. One of them, I immediately recognized as Gabrielle Delacour, who had grown up nicely, I had to admit. Were I not a married man already, I would have been honored to court her._

_Next was the woman who I saw that Fleur and Gabrielle had inherited their looks from. Looking no older than thirty, Madame Delacour was a very beautiful woman, with the same kind of shiny, golden hair as her daughters, the kind of hair that immediately caught your attention._

_The third character was the odd one out. Not at all as attractive as the girls, he was a short and plump man with a pointed, black beard. His eyes, however, spoke of experience and intelligence, and they held the same type of calculating look that I had to often seen in Harry's eyes when he entered a new room._

_We both rose from our seats and made our way over. Harry greeted Fleur with a kiss, and then turned his attention to the women, kissing their knuckles and then shaking Monsieur Delacour's hand._

"_It is a pleasure to meet you all. My friend, Healer Neville Longbottom," he introduced me, and I mimicked his actions._

"_So, you are ze famed 'Arry Potter?" Monsieur Delacour asked with a hint of a smirk on his face. "It is an 'onor to finally meet you. You 'andled ze 'Eadless Case expertly. It was Carlson, as I suspected?"_

_My eyes widened in surprise, as the Headless Case had not been published yet. He must have heard about it from someone in the Ministry._

"_Indeed it was, Monsieur," Harry said, happy at the praise, as always._

"_I was sure of it when first I 'eard of it," Monsieur Delacour said, puffing out his chest with pride. "I offered ze British Ministry of Magic my advice, but zey told me zey already 'ad an expert working on ze case. I admit, I was doubtful, but meeting you now, I can tell you truly are an expert in your field."_

"_Great praise, coming from you, Monsieur Delacour," Harry said, smiling._

"_Do you work for the French Ministry, Monsieur Delacour?" I asked politely. I wanted to know what this man did, to be so influential to be able to extend an offer to help to our Ministry._

"_'E is ze French Ministry," Madame Delacour gushed proudly, holding her head high. Then, I believed him to be the Minister of Magic, but Monsieur Delacour waved her off._

"_Do not listen to my wife, Monsieur Longbottom," he said modestly. "I am merely 'Ead of our Department of Magical Law Enforcement."_

"_But 'e 'as connections everywhere," Madame Delacour insisted, and Monsieur Delacour's shoulders slumped in what looked like resignation._

"_Very well, very well. Now, where shall we sleep during our little stay 'ere?"_

–

Harry and Dumbledore talked for a long time about what Harry had been doing the last five years, about how he had been helping the French Ministry under the name Pierre Delacour, a supposed cousin of Jean-Luc Delacour.

"...so it was obvious, from those three tiny details, that André was the one who had murdered them."

"But André had no motive," Dumbledore said, having followed the case Harry had solved with great interest. "All five women were connected to Badeau, and the murder weapon was found in his house."

"Exactly where André had planted it. He had had his fill of murders for that year, and decided to set someone up to take the blame. I have little doubt that he would have done the same thing the following year."

"Brilliant," Dumbledore said brightly. "Absolutely brilliant. I take it that the boot heel in the mud stood out the most."

"Indeed. Jean-Luc already had it all figured out, though. He merely wished to test me," Harry said, a bit bitterly. Dumbledore nodded.

"Yes, Jean-Luc has a habit of being a bit..." he trailed off, searching for the proper word.

"You may say annoying, Albus, I won't judge," Harry said with a smile, which Dumbledore mimicked.

"I was going to say over the top."

"Sure you were."

Harry fished out his watch and looked at it, humming.

"Well, it's almost time for dinner, I think," he said, pocketing the watch again. "It was very nice to talk to you again, Albus, but I really must be going."

"The pleasure was all mine, Harry, and you're welcome back whenever you wish," Dumbledore said as they both rose, shaking hands.

And so, at dinner time, Harry found himself sitting alone in 221B Diagon Alley, having just finished his dinner when Neville stepped inside.

"You know, you do have a wife," Harry said in amusement as they both moved over to sit down in their armchairs.

"So do you," Neville said simply, picking up the Evening Prophet and unfolding it with a familiarity that Harry would allow with no one else. Only Neville was close enough to him to be allowed to sit without asking, and to read Harry's newspaper.

"Anything good?" Harry asked, having not had the opportunity to read the newspaper yet.

Neville gave an, "Eh," and shrugged. "They praise you a lot for the capture of the Lestranges. But there are no new cases from what I can see."

"How predictably boring..." Harry muttered, stretching his long legs out and lighting his pipe, while Neville lit a cigar.

–

"Look at them, Neville," Harry said a month later as the two stood in King's Cross station, looking over the busy Muggles who were making their way to and from the various platforms. "They have no idea what's going on under their very noses."

"One little stumble wrong, and a whole new world would open up to them," Neville admitted with a nod, his gaze fixed on the barrier between platforms nine and ten, where no doubt stood the train in which Neville had first befriended the queer but great Harry Potter who was standing next to him.

A train pulled into platform ten, and Harry immediately perked up, watching with Neville as a woman got off the train. It was the second most beautiful woman in the world, in Neville's opinion, Fleur Delacour. Although she was in her mid-thirties, she looked nowhere near that age. She was carrying a boy who looked around the age of four. The boy, Harry Potter the second, looked like a carbon copy of Harry. The only difference was the eyes. Instead of emerald green eyes, the boy had inherited his mother's sapphire blue eyes.

Harry waved, catching Fleur's eye, and she made her way over to them.

"'Arry!" she said happily when she reached him, giving him a heated kiss that Neville felt was unsuited for Junior to watch, and which earned the jealousy of many passing men.

"I'm happy to see you too," Harry said, looking a bit dazed when Fleur broke the kiss, and then he turned his attention to his son, who reached out for him. "And how's my little boy doing?"

"Daddy!" the child exclaimed happily as Harry took the boy from Fleur, who moved over and kissed Neville once on each cheek.

"Neville, 'ow are you?"

"Better, now that he's back," Neville said with a smile, gesturing for Harry, who was happily bobbing Junior up and down. Fleur smiled sadly.

"I'm sorry for deceiving you, Neville," she said. "You were a good friend and was always zere for me and Junior when we zought 'Arry was gone."

"Don't worry, I'm not upset," Neville said pleasantly. "I'm just glad he's back."

And so Neville found himself that evening sitting in his usual armchair at 221B with Harry after a 'family dinner,' as Harry called it, with Hannah, Fleur, Harry, Neville, Harry Jr. and Harry Longbottom. Hannah, Fleur and the boys were on the settee, chatting amicably. Harry was peacefully strumming on his violin, while Neville smoked a cigar in silence. It was quite nice, he had to admit. They both had become quite successful. They were married to great women, had great children, and they were doing what they did and enjoyed the best. Life was good.

A soft knock came upon the door, and at Harry's urging, it was opened, to reveal Mrs. Marston, who looked rather grave.

"I'm sorry to disturb you at this peaceful moment, Mr. Potter," she said, "but Mr. Dawlish is outside waiting for you. He wants to meet you straight away."

"Well, duty calls, I suppose," Harry said, setting down the violin and rising from his chair. "Fleur, you don't mind if I...?"

"Not at all," Fleur said, shaking her head. "You go and 'ave fun, my love, but be careful."

Harry smiled. "I always am."

With that, he left the room. He came back, however, very soon, and he looked to Neville.

"Oh, Neville, could you turn the chairs, please. And ladies, do you mind if you go into the kitchen and talk?" he asked, telling Neville that something gruesome had happened that he didn't want the women or children to hear.

Neville nodded and waved his wand, turning the chairs, while the women took the children into the kitchen without a fuss, no doubt suspecting the same. Harry stepped inside, followed by Kingsley Shacklebolt, who looked very grave, more serious than usual.

"Please, have a seat," Harry said, gesturing for the settee and sitting down in his usual chair. "You said something about a kidnapping?"

"Yes," Kingsley said as he took a seat. "The girl who was kidnapped, she's eleven years old. She's the fifth one to be kidnapped, and the Hit Wizards have no leads whatsoever. They're stumped, and the Head of the Hit Wizards, Frank Stabler, asked me for help. I suggested that we ask you for help."

"Could this be the one who the newspapers have dubbed the Doll Maker?"

"Indeed," Kingsley said, and Neville knew now why Harry didn't want the women hearing this.

The Doll Maker had so far kidnapped four recorded victims, and all four of the little girls had been found murdered, horribly mutilated. The killer was named as such because of the doll-like dresses the girls were wearing, and the horrible attempts at stitching the girls up that had been made. One little girl had even had a button sewn into her eye.

"So, you finally come to me about this," Harry said as he rose from his chair, walking over to his bookcase. He took out a small, matchbox-sized box and waved his wand over it. Immediately, it grew to show several files in it, and Harry took one out, setting the box down on the floor. "Here we are, the Doll Maker," he said as he opened the file, revealing several newspaper clippings. "Ah, yes, the rather curious one..."

"Do you have any leads?" Kingsley asked hopefully, and Harry shook his head.

"It's unwise to theorize before one has data," Harry said and closed the file, putting it back in the box. "I will need to see the crime scene."

"But of course."

–

"Tell me," Harry said as he appeared, along with Neville and Kingsley, in an empty, dark playground, "does the Ministry have any suspects?" he asked, immediately fishing out his lens and getting on his hands and knees, looking over the grass.

"We suspect that the culprit is a male, with some sort of sick fetish for those strange dresses," Kingsley said grimly.

"Hm, indeed?" Harry asked, sounding amused as he kept his eyes on the ground, giving a "Hm" here and an "Ah" there. "And how did you come to that conclusion, I wonder?"

"Well, by looking at the bodies, sir," Kingsley said simply.

"Indeed," Harry said, giving another "Hm..." before looking at Kingsley. "And had the girls in any manner been... soiled?"

"Well, we don't know, honestly," Kingsley said. "The bodies were all torn up, it was impossible to tell."

"Mr. Shacklebolt, you are not dealing with a man," Harry said as he got to his feet, pointing down at the ground. "I trust this is the place she was taken from?"

"When last her parents looked, yes, that's where she was."

"Then you are dealing with a woman, approximately five foot nine, judging by the length of her stride. She was walking away from here with the girl, possibly hand-in-hand, and wore a pair of square-toed, high-heeled boots."

With that, Harry headed over to Neville.

"Come, Neville. It is much too late to pursue any leads. We could just as well be sitting at home, quietly digesting our dinner, as we ponder this peculiar case..."

To Neville, something seemed to be tugging on Harry's insides. He seemed conflicted, not showing the same emotionless detachment he usually showed in cases like this. Perhaps he was now imagining his son in the little kidnapped girl's place? Neville imagined his own son in her place, and it tore at his insides. He wanted blood for what this horrible woman was doing to those children!

–

**So, what do you think? Like it? Love it? Hate it? ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW**!


	4. Chapter 4

**The fourth chapter of The Return of Harry Holmes! Please leave a review at the door, let me know what you think!**

–

_**THE DOLL MAKER STRIKES AGAIN!**_

Harry sighed rather loudly as he sat with Neville in the sitting room of 221B Diagon Alley. The young Lucy had turned up, dead. That was the fifth victim of the Doll Maker... Neville had to admit, not much made him feel sick these days, being a Healer and companion of Harry Potter, but this case truly made him want to vomit. Apparently, the Doll Maker was getting more and more violent, as this girl was apparently mutilated to the point of hardly being recognizable.

"Once again, the Ministry shows its incompetence," Harry said, slapping the newspaper and dropping it to the floor. The two sat in silence as Harry grumpily picked up his violin and started strumming it, the notes reflecting his foul mood.

After a few minutes, Harry put down the violin and reached for the floor, picking up the file on the Doll Maker and handing it over to Neville.

"Tell me, Neville, can you see a pattern?"

Neville looked through the articles in the file, shaking his head.

"All of them eleven, all of them mutilated, and all of them wearing the same style of dresses," Neville said. "Other than that, nothing."

"Ah, you see, but you do not observe. You fail to see what isn't there."

"And what isn't there?"

"A motive, a reason for these kidnappings."

"So... no motive, no reason, no apparent connection with the victims..." Neville muttered, humming. "Are we dealing with a psychotic?"

"So it would seem," Harry said, nodding as he leaned back in his armchair, stretching out his legs as had become custom for him ever since he returned to Britain. "Her Modus Operandi is clear, but her kidnappings are random, sporadic... She kidnaps her victims on a whim... Walworth, St. Luke's, Hoxton, Pentonville, Westbourne Green... She follows no predictable pattern, which makes her all the more dangerous. This case would be very amusing, were it not so sickening..."

–

That evening, Harry and Neville were summoned to South Kensington, where another kidnapping had taken place. They were met by Kingsley and Hit Wizard Wright, a grim-looking, older man, who was on the verge of balding, his gray hair showing his age.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Longbottom," Wright greeted, shaking both men's hands. "Glad you could make it," he said as they made their way onto the playground where the kidnapping had taken place. "The victim's name is Elsa Gibbons, age eleven, like the others, due to start at Hogwarts in September."

"Neville, do take notes," Harry suggested, though unnecessarily, as Neville had already started writing down the details regarding the victim as soon as Wright had spoken. "The parents saw nothing?"

"Not a thing," Wright said, shaking his head.

"Naturally... Ah, high-heeled, square-toed boots," he said, no doubt noticing a track on the ground. "Same woman, same M.O. Hopefully, we'll be able to get to this one in time, provided that the Ministry finally decides to give me free reigns?"

Harry glanced at Wright and Kingsley with a raised eyebrow, only for the two of them to start fidgeting nervously.

"Well, sir, if it were up to me, I would gladly allow you free reigns," Kingsley said hesitantly, "but Scrimgeour... he has decided that we only want you as a consultant in this case."

"Are you mad?" demanded a voice from behind them, and they spun around to see a middle-aged couple walking up to them, looking quite distraught. The man, who was the one who had spoken, looked outraged. "This is Harry Potter, the greatest detective this country has ever seen, and you won't let him do whatever it takes to find our little Elsa?"

"Sir, if it were up to me-" Kingsley started, only to be interrupted by Mr. Gibbons, who looked to Harry.

"Please, Mr. Potter, find her! I will pay you whatever it takes, just find her!"

A hint of a smirk made its way onto Harry's face, and he lit a cigarette, taking a long drag, before looking to Kingsley.

"Well, it appears that my services have been acquired by someone other than the Ministry. A shame, but I cannot help you."

"Too bad," Kingsley said, and he looked relieved to know that Harry was on the case, as he should. "Well, I wish you the best of luck. We will do our best on our end, as well."

"Best of luck to you too, Kingsley," Harry said with a nod, and with that, the two turned their backs on each other, Kingsley walking off with Wright, while Harry focused on the Gibbons. "Now, Mr. and Mrs. Gibbons, you saw nothing?"

"No, nothing," Mrs. Gibbons said, her eyes glistening with tears. "One second she was there, and the next, she was gone..."

"I am certain it took a lot longer than a second," Harry said, "but I get your point. Thank you, I will do my best to make sure you can embrace your beloved Elsa once more."

Giving a bow of his head, Harry walked off, and Neville followed.

"So?" Neville asked, seeing a glint in his partner's eyes.

"I have noticed something, something I failed to take into account the last time," Harry said. "Have you noticed something about the tracks?"

"I can't even see the tracks, let alone notice something odd about them," Neville said with a shake of his head. "Why? What can you see?"

"I can see tracks," Harry said. "This woman doesn't Apparate away with her victims, but instead walks away with them. Why would she do that?"

"Because she doesn't want to attract attention?" Neville suggested. Then, his eyes widened when it clicked. "Or... because she can't Apparate?"

"An adult who doesn't know how to Apparate?" Harry said, raising an eyebrow. "Unheard of, no?"

"A Squib, then?"

"That's what I suspect."

"So, maybe she murders these children out of jealousy?"

"One might think so, but I doubt it. If a psychotic kidnapper wanted to murder someone out of jealousy, why dress them up? Why attempt to sew them back up after she's done with them? No... I think there's more to this than that."

–

"Well, it took some coaxing, but I finally got Kingsley to release the list of recorded Squibs in Britain," Neville said as he entered Harry's flat. He set down a huge pile of parchments on the table between their armchairs, and Harry looked down at the pile, then up at Neville.

"We're going to need some coffee..."

And so, the duo found themselves going through the list of Squibs, writing down female names and cross-checking them with older articles from the Daily Prophet, to see if they could find some sort of connection. It was a bit thin, in Neville's opinion, and as he suspected, they didn't find anything.

It was infuriating, how little progress they were making, while a little girl's life was at stake, and it never ceased to surprise Neville how calm Harry remained throughout it all.

"Hello," Harry said, looking through a twenty-year-old copy of the Daily Prophet, "what have we here?"

"Hm?" Neville, taking a break and sipping a cup of coffee, hummed, raising an eyebrow. Harry handed over the newspaper, and Neville took it.

_**ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD LISA GIBSON FOUND DEAD!**_

_A London family was shattered today, when the body_

_of eleven-year-old Lisa Gibson was found in a park,_

_mutilated beyond recognition. In her despair, the mo-_

_ther, Erica Gibson, committed suicide, leaving her hus-_

_band and oldest daughter on their own..._

"Merlin's beard..." Neville muttered, and Harry nodded, going through the Squib list.

"Ah, here we are... Fifty-year old Greta Gibson, a Squib," Harry said with a triumphant chuckle. "Well, I'd say the pieces are falling into place quite nicely."

"Is she trying to fill the void left by the loss of her sister?" Neville asked, setting down the newspaper while watching Harry, who was putting on his frock coat. "Or is she trying to recreate her sister's murder?"

Harry grinned. "Let's ask her," he said pleasantly, and together the two left 221B Diagon Alley.

They appeared with a crack in front of a rundown old house. It looked just as badly taken care of as the Lestrange manor. As they approached it, Harry kept his eyes on the ground, giving small hums here and there. Neville, however, focused only on the door that was getting steadily closer.

They reached the door, and Harry raised his hand, knocking three times. A muffled voice was heard from inside, and though it was muffled, they could still hear that it was sharp and angry. Following the voice was hurried footsteps, and the door opened to reveal an older woman, her face gaunt and her black hair a mess. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she was staring straight into Neville's eyes with a soulless gaze that sent a shiver up his spine.

"Yes?" the woman asked sharply, obviously wanting nothing to do with them.

"Are you Greta Gibson?" Harry asked pleasantly, but his tone was commanding, and Neville thought he could detect a promise of pain behind his words.

"Yes?" the woman repeated suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"How refreshing to be asked that question," Harry said, smiling, though the smile was a dangerous one. "I am Harry Potter, and this is my friend and partner, Healer Neville Longbottom. We were wondering if Lisa is home?"

Greta's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do you want with Lisa?" she asked, glancing from Harry to Neville, then back again. "If you're here to take her away..."

"We are," Harry said simply.

Immediately, the woman withdrew from behind her back a very large kitchen knife, and swiped at Harry, who immediately jumped back, having no doubt been prepared for it, and the two men drew their wands. With a flash of red, the woman hit the ground, unconscious.

"Lisa?" Neville asked, raising an eyebrow as they stood over the unconscious Greta.

"You were right, Neville," Harry said simply. "She was trying to fill the void left by the loss of her sister. When the victims refused to cooperate, she no doubt flew into a rage, killing them, and when she came out of it, she tried hopelessly to 'repair' her victims."

Humming, Harry reached into his waistcoat and fished out his watch, looking at it.

"And if my owl arrived on time, we should be getting a visit right around... now."

At the last word, cracks were heard as several Aurors appeared on the scene, accompanied by none other than Rufus Scrimgeour himself.

"Potter!" Scrimgeour barked as the Aurors charged into the house, two of them picking up the unconscious Greta and carrying her inside. "I thought my orders were clear. You were to stay out of this case!"

"Hm, if I did, you'd be cleaning up another corpse, and chasing a rumor," Harry said calmly, smirking at Scrimgeour. "Besides, Elsa's parents hired me, not the Ministry. Why they thought you'd need any assistance is beyond me, though."

Scrimgeour bristled, glaring heatedly at Harry.

"Be that as it may, in the future I expect you to obey my orders!"

"I don't work for you," Harry said, his smirk disappearing to be replaced with a cold frown. "Now, now, Scrimgeour," he said, making his disrespect clear for anyone listening to hear, "don't let your pride get in the way of success. You need me a lot more than I need you, it just hurts too much to admit it."

Scrimgeour didn't retort, but his glare didn't let up. On the contrary, it intensified, which in Neville's opinion was only helping him prove Harry right.

"Well, in any case, London can breathe a sigh of relief," Scrimgeour said after a moment of silence, his glare letting up, no doubt actually thinking about just what Harry had accomplished.

"Indeed," Neville said happily. "Thanks to the excellent work of the Ministry of Magic's Department for Magical Law Enforcement, with the help of London's only consulting detective."

"Bravo, Mr. Scrimgeour," Harry said, patting Scrimgeour on the shoulder.

"Gentlemen," a woman's voice said, a woman easily recognized as Rita Skeeter. The three turned to see the venomous reporter herself, standing next to her cameraman Bozo, who was ready to take a picture. "Cheese!"

With that, the flash bulb went off.

–

_Rarely have I ever seen beauty like Fleur's, except that of my own wife's. During the wedding, I could tell that all eyes were on her as she came walking down the aisle with Monsieur Delacour, who was bouncing and beaming, not at all the lazy man Neville had grown accustomed to. Fleur was wearing a very simple, white dress, and seemed to be emitting a strong, silvery glow. While her radiance usually dimmed almost everyone else by comparison, today it beautified everybody it fell upon. Gabrielle and a veela cousin of Fleur's, both wearing golden dresses, looked even prettier than they had before, not to mention my own wife, who looked like a goddess. Harry, who had looked tired and a bit weary, looked as strong and healthy as ever before, standing tall and proud._

"_Ladies and gentlemen," Dumbledore said, once more handling the wedding, just as he had with my own. The speech he gave was almost the same one he gave at my wedding, though the joy he with which he spoke the words made the speech seem very original. He was beaming at Harry and Fleur, as if he had never seen a more wonderful couple._

"_Do you, Harry James, take Fleur Isabelle...?"_

_In the front row, I could see Fleur's mother sobbing quietly into a scrap of lace, and Monsieur Delacour was amicably patting her on the hand, whispering soothing words, I suspected, into her ear._

"_...then I declare you bonded for life!"_

_Once more, Dumbledore waved his wand high over Harry and Fleur's heads, just as he had done at my wedding, only this time golden stars fell upon the two, spiraling around their entwined figures._

"_Ladies and gentlemen! If you would please stand up!"_

_Soon enough, the happy couple was out on the dance floor, moving to the rhythm of the song that was being played by the band, The Weird Sisters..._

–

One autumn night, a few months after the capture of the deranged Doll Maker, Neville was seated by his own hearth, smoking a last cigar and nodding over a novel, as his day's work had been an exhausting one. His wife had already come upstairs and gone to bed. He had risen from his seat and was putting out his cigar when he suddenly heard the clang of the bell.

He looked at the clock. It was a quarter to twelve. This couldn't be a visitor at so late an hour. A patient, evidently, and possibly an all-night sitting. With a wry face, Neville went out into the hall and opened the door. To his astonishment, it was Sir Harry Potter who stood upon his doorstep.

"Ah, Neville," he said happily. "I hoped that I might not be too late to catch you."

"My dear fellow, please come in."

"You look surprised, and no wonder! Relieved, too, I fancy! Hum! You still smoke Old Toby's cigars of your bachelor days, then! There's no mistaking that fluffy ash upon your coat. Could you put me up to-night?"

"With pleasure."

"You told me that you had bachelor quarters for one, and I see that you have no gentleman visitor at present. Your hat-stand proclaims as much."

"I shall be delighted if you will stay."

"Thank you. I'll fill the vacant peg then. Sorry to see that you've had the British workman in the house. He's a token of evil. Not the drains, I hope?"

"No, the gas."

"Ah! He has left two nail-marks from his boot on your wooden floor just where the light strikes it. No, thank you, I had some supper at Waterloo, but I'll smoke a pipe with you with pleasure."

Neville handed him him pouch, and he seated himself opposite to Neville and smoked for some time in silence. Neville was well aware that nothing but business of importance would have brought Harry to him at such an hour, so he waited patiently until he should come round to it.

"I see that you are professionally rather busy just now," he said, glancing very keenly across at Neville.

"Yes, I've had a busy day," Neville answered. "It may seem very foolish in your eyes," he added, "but really I don't know how you deduced it."

Harry chuckled to himself.

"I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Neville," he said. "When your round is a short one you walk, and when it is a long one you Apparate. As I perceive that your boots, although used, are by no means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are at present busy enough to justify the Apparition."

"Excellent!" I cried.

"Elementary," he said. "It is one of those instances where the reasoner can produce an effect which seems remarkable to his neighbor, because the latter has missed the one little point which is the basis of the deduction. The same may be said, my dear fellow, for the effect of some of these little sketches of yours, which is entirely meretricious, depending as it does upon your retaining in your own hands some factors in the problem which are never imparted to the reader. Now, at present I am in the position of these same readers, for I hold in this hand several threads of one of the strangest cases which ever perplexed a man's brain, and yet I lack the one or two which are needful to complete my theory. But I'll have them, Neville, I'll have them!" His eyes kindled and a slight flush sprang into his thin cheeks. For an instant the veil had lifted upon his keen, intense nature, but for an instant only. When Neville glanced again his face had resumed that red-Indian composure which had made so many regard him as a machine rather than a man.

"The problem presents features of interest," he said. "I may even say exceptional features of interest. I have already looked into the matter, and have come, as I think, within sight of my solution. If you could accompany me in that last step you might be of considerable service to me."

–

**So, what do you think? Like it? Love it? Hate it? ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW, ****REVIEW**!


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